


Coitus Ruptus

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doing my usual and WILDLY missing the mark of a kink meme prompt.  Sticky, sexual dysfunction, purple prose, pwp</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coitus Ruptus

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=12609024#t12609024
> 
> The plot (or lack thereof) goes like this: Drift has a problem with premature ejaculation. Maybe it's a psychological side effect of having his body modified, maybe it's Wing who's too hawt and makes all mechs within his EM field range go BOOM CUMSHOT if they happen to have their guns loaded, idk. I'd like to see embarrassed Drift overloading upon random contact during wrestling with Wing.
> 
> As far as their relationship is concerned, Drift's inability to bring Wing to overload in berth starts to annoy the jet, so he begins to train Drift, introducing him to premature ejaculation exercises and remedies like edging and ballooning. Maybe he has to tie Drift up and show him the ropes...
> 
> Feel free to interpret this prompt the way you like or add any kink which is hot to you. Go nuts

Wing was dancing again and a part of Drift wanted to hurt him for it, for the sensual temptation of those swaying hips, the unconscious grace as he moved to the tempo of the music, creating impossibly liquid, sinuous lines.  At the same time, another part of Drift wanted to throw Wing to the ground or drag him to the berth or push him up against the wall and take him. His spike ached in its housing , almost throbbing in time to the music, to the delicate figure-8’s Wing was tracing with his hips, hypnotic, enticing.

And the worst part was that he knew Wing wasn’t doing it on purpose.

So  he scowled, trying to tear his optics away, forcing his optics to his hands, clenched together between his knees as he sat on the floor.

“You can,” Wing said, lightly, “use a chair, you know.”

Drift growled, quietly, his optics flicking up to the white and red chevrons of Wing’s pelvic armor. “I know how to.”

“I know you do,” Wing said, dropping down, the red flash of one greave blade sweeping into view. Drift turned his face away, nearly vibrating with lust.  “You just…you’re more than welcome to use one.  This is your home.”

“Prison,” Drift corrected. “This isn’t my home.”

Wing tilted closer, his shadow falling over Drift’s face, his optics glowing from his shaded face. “It is, if you want it.”

“I don’t want it. I want to go back.” He sounded petty, and he knew it; he sounded petulant and small.  But he was powerless here: they’d made that clear enough, and Dai Atlas had announced to the world that Wing was nothing more than his guard, someone to keep him from some sort of gross contamination of their pretty perfect city. His if he wanted it. Slag. Absolute and utter. And Wing was a manipulative glitch for trying to make him think otherwise. He wasn’t stupid.

“Drift,” Wing said, sounding tired, exasperated, like they’d been over this a hundred times before.

They had. And still Wing kept trying.

“I know,” Drift sneered. “It’s for the best. It’s for safety and peace. False peace, all of it.  What kind of wonderful place do you have here where one mech with one wrong word or one wrong idea could bring it down, huh?” His optics blazed in challenge, but that was all he had: he knew what fighting got him.

“It’s not like that, Drift. We want—I want—you to be happy here. This is the world you fought your war for. Right here.”  Wing smiled at him, but he was smiling down. Everyone always looked down on Deadlock.

He hated it. And he hated how, even through all of this, that his sensornet blazed, licking over Wing’s EM field, his palms twitching, wanting to touch. 

It certainly didn’t help his mood, to be stewing in lust.

He forced his optics up to meet Wing’s, steadfast and hateful in their new blue. They hadn’t even let him keep his lowlight optics.  Still, the glower was one even Turmoil would have recognized, sullen and resentful. “I didn’t fight for this,” he said, his voice a guttural snarl, enough to make Wing recoil, his smile faltering.

[***]

“Come on, Drift,” Wing taunted, beckoning him with a palm on the training floor. “You’re not even trying.”

Right. Drift pushed himself up onto one knee, rising slowly, every servo in his frame sore and shaking. Not even trying. “You’re cheating,” he growled.  It didn’t help that even fighting, Wing moved with a sinuous, arousing grace.

“Cheating? Me?” Wing gave a winsome little grin that Drift hated even while his sensornet flared to life again. Combat had always charged him up—he’d often tussled with Turmoil, after combat, biting and clawing as the larger mech drove into him, as though interfacing was just another form of combat. 

It certainly blurred lines.

And Wing’s elegant movements blurred them even more.

Drift flung himself at Wing again, his feet pounding the intricately inlaid pavements, rushing, bullheaded and brutal and blunt, at Wing, where he stood, in that elegant little contrapposto stance, like he was the force of the war itself trying to crush the weak and dainty.

Wing stepped lightly aside, catching one of Drift’s outflung arms, pivoting his stance sending them both tumbling to the ground, Drift’s body crashing against Wing’s, limbs flailing together. The impact jarred Drift, rattling his visual field, and for a moment all he could do was feel, with his hands, with his armor, the sleekness of Wing’s polished enamel, the spicy tang of his oil, and the enticing fuzz of his EM field. Drift’s sensornet flared against it, his spike going abruptly rigid, pushing cool lubricant up the channels, even as the head bumped painfully against his spike cover.

He gave a snarl, at his own rebellious system, the way desire flamed over him, the way the proximitiy to Wing, body against body, thigh against thigh, sent little tremors of want cascading over him. He wanted to kiss, he wanted to bite, instead he gnashed his dentae together, his hands grabbing at Wing’s body, as though unsure themselves whether to grope or grab. 

Wing’s body heaved under him, the jet’s feet planting flat, the blades of his greaves scooping under Drift’s legs, trying to toss him.  And all Drift could register was the sleek wax sliding against his, the EM field licking over his. 

Drift bucked, riding the movement, which stretched the jet’s thighs wider underneath him, twisting to fall in that gap, hips against thighs. 

“Oh,” Wing laughed, clamping his hands on the small of Drift’s back, flaring one flightpanel to flip off his own back, levering himself on top of Drift.  His pelvic armor banged heavily on Drift’s, one thigh sliding up the back of Drift’s to get his weight on top of the other mech.  Drift groaned, jerking his pelvic span back, trying to pull it out of contact.  He should be fighting, he should be swinging his free fist at the jet’s face, but all he could think of was how little metal separated him from Wing’s valve, probably just as sleek and supple and posh as the rest of him.

Wing crowed, straddling Drift’s waist, one hand pinning a wrist. “Do you yield?”

Drift snarled up at him, trying to shake his wrist free.  Wing gave a triumphant wriggle, his pelvic armor riding over Drift’s.  

And then.

The embarrassing pneumatic hiss, unmistakable, as Drift’s spike released a burst of transfluid, maddened by Wing’s goading, the slide and press of the jet’s body against his.

He went rigid with mortification. Wing, above him, froze for a klik, before bursting into laughter which made Drift’s face blaze with embarrassment. “Oh, Drift,” Wing said, lowering himself down, chassis against chassis, his EM field suddenly inviting and purring. “I didn’t know.”

Yeah, that was the point, Drift thought, shoving Wing off him. He could see the telltale leak of silver around his interface panel, swabbing at it roughly with one hand.

“If you want to,” Wing said, rising from where he’d been thrust off, “all you need do is…ask.”

[***]

Wing’s body was…beautiful. Even Drift would admit that. The angles and planes, the sleek compact symmetry of his kibble, everything was just beautiful. He had to stop, burying his face against the well-polished shoulder, blocking out the sight of Wing, because seeing, smelling, touching and tasting him, hearing his soft pants, it was all just too much.

Wing purred, arching his spinal struts against Drift. Drift expected a fight, here, too, expected Wing to want to top him, like he did everything else, but Wing lay easily on his back, thighs spread, nearly offering himself. 

Asking had been almost impossible, but he’d broken down, late that night, after tossing and turning in his berth, feeling Wing, half a room away, as though connected to him. His spike ached, keeping him awake, restless, until he’d finally gotten up, crossing over, almost stomping until he was by Wing’s berthside.  “I’m asking,” he’d said, flatly, announcing it. It felt enough like an admission, a bending to Wing’s way and Wing’s rules, to do that much, to not just launch himself at the jet. 

And Wing’s smile nearly glowed in the darkness, his hands reaching, pulling Drift on top of him.

And now, this.

Wing shifted underneath him, and Drift felt the click of the interface hatch opening. His hand reached down, skating over the newly-exposed metal under the panels, the dual rings of heat of spike and valve. Wing curled his hips into the touch, giving a soft sound, encouraging and delicious.  “I want you,” Wing breathed.

Drift didn’t answer, because there was no need. Every tense inch of his body vibrated with lust, his spike surging against his own equipment cover. 

The valve cover released under his importuning fingers, and he probed just inside the rim, feeling the exquisite, fine mesh, damp with lubricant, and the promising, high-tensioned calipers already fluttering at the intrusion. 

It was a different experience, for him, someone who wasn’t fighting. His own valve was blocked by a repulsor magnet, and more than once he’d had to reinforce that deterrence with the butt of his pistol. But here was Wing, tipping his open valve into Drift’s touch, unprotesting, the valve slick with lubricant. 

He hiked his hips over, releasing his spike, at last, the air between them fuzzed with EMF, a plush blanket of sensation against him as he lowered the spike toward the valve.

He paused, looking up, wanting to watch Wing’s face as he pushed his spike in, wanting to see a mech who wanted it, who found taking a spike arousing, not humiliating.

Wing…did not disappoint, his whole frame seeming to swell, as Drift nosed the spike in, feeling the calipers spread, the lining stretch around him, the cilia of the lining brushing against the dark metal shaft of his spike.  He pushed in, until the spike was sheathed entirely in that velvety darkness, and even then he pushed in, grinding the rim of his spike’s mounting plate against Wing’s valve.

Wing groaned, his hand catching at the back of Drift’s helm, pulling him into a fierce kiss.  “Take me,” Wing said, the words vibrating against his mouth. “Take me.”

Drift felt his body jolt at the words, his sensor net crack as though struck by lightning. And then, belatedly, the hot spill of energon from his spike.

He jerked back, his face contorted, yanking his spike from the valve, even as silver transfluid, telltale and betraying, dribbled from his spike’s head.

He cursed, furious. 

“Drift,” Wing said, his gold optics tipped with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Wrong?  Wrong? Nothing. Right. He could feel the mech take in his traitorous spike, silver and throbbing, could feel the burn of humiliation: to be offered Wing like that and…not even get to enjoy it.  “Nothing,” he snapped.  He threw himself on the berth, back to the jet, arms folded, thighs squeezing his spike.  “Didn’t want you anyway.”  A lie, and they both knew it, a wormwood gall of his disappointment.

[***]

The second night, Wing had come to him, murmuring they’d just gone too fast last time, and that he apologized.  And then as it happened again, suggested—tactfully—that Drift could find alternate ways to pleasure him, with his mouth, or his fingers, but Drift had recoiled in disgust.  The third night, Wing had given a frustrated sigh of his own, and lay next to Drift, his own hands skimming his armor, between his thighs, attending to his own desire with clever, beautiful hands, leaving Drift in another ball of impotent rage, bathed by Wing’s soft sounds of desire.

He didn’t even try, the fourth night, throwing himself on his own berth, worn out from rage and frustration.

Wing moved, and he could feel the jet’s EM field flutter behind him, the voice soft and hesitant. “Drift. I could teach you,” he said, in a voice that clearly expected rebuff.

Drift bit his lip plates, hard enough that energon welled under his dentae, filling his mouth with the sharp tang.  He wasn’t stupid.  He wasn’t ignorant.

Except he was, and he knew it.  He rolled over, his face a mask of self-hatred. “Fine. Teach me.”  The hardest words he’d said in a long time.

Wing seemed to deflate with relief, moving to rest one knee on the berth. “I promise. It is even…pleasurable.” 

Drift scowled.  “Just do it already.”

“Let’s see your spike,” Wing said, settling down by his hip. 

“There’s nothing wrong with my spike,” he snapped, defensive.  All the more defensive because he was sort of starting to doubt it himself. 

“I know,” Wing said, patiently. He tapped with two knuckles on Drift’s interface hatch. “Let’s see.”

Drift gave a sour look, releasing his spike.  Already, just this close to Wing, the EM field from Wing’s elegant black hand brushing against his spike, he could feel it trembling, rigid with want.  Frag. 

“Now,” Wing said, and then that warm, beautiful hand closed over his spike, fingers wrapping its girth. Drift gasped, as though the contact was electric. Wing smiled up at him, as he slowly slid his hand up the spike, stopping just below the bulge of the spike’s head.  Drift shivered, feeling the slick friction rise up, then down.  And then up again. His ventilations grew choppy, hips, almost in spite of himself, rising up, pushing into Wing’s touch. He could feel heat and pressure build, the desire for overload rising almost to a need, stinging down the shaft.  “This,” Wing said. “I want you to do this.” 

“I’ve done this.” A lot.

“No, I mean just like this. Not touching anything…above…,” he bent down, slicking the finger of his free hand around the spike’s head, “this line.”

Drift squirmed, the touch hot and electric, like a line of white fire.  “Can’t get off this way.”

That light, gentle laugh. “For right now, that’s sort of the point. But,” Wing leaned over, his glossa tracing the same line his finger just had, then moving forward to plant a kiss, smeared with Drift’s lubricant, on his mouth, “I assure you, you can overload this way. And it feels,” his voice dropped to a vibrating whisper that seemed to shiver through Drift’s entire body, “wonderful.”

Drift felt a growl build in his throat, catching the vibration of Wing’s sultry purr. The hand moved over his spike, gentle and tormenting. 

“I promise you,” Wing said, his gold optics warm seas of longing. Drift could barely think, his body rolling like something unfamiliar on the berth, hands clutching helplessly, one on the empty berth, the other on the red flash of Wing’s shin armor. “But for now,” Wing said, “if you’re good, we’ll let you overload.”

“Let!”  That was the only word he choked out, as Wing’s skillful fingers circled over the spike’s head again, twisting and squeezing around the neglected head, until Drift felt his body buck up, the built up heat and pressure releasing in a strange shuddering rush.  Instead of a jet of transfluid, sharp and sudden, it was a push, a wet trickle, pouring down his spike like icing as his body went through a paroxysm of shudders and trembles. 

“Let,” Wing echoed, sweeping his silver-painted fingers up the spike, which nearly flinched under his touch, hypercharged, pushing his laugh into another, more forceful kiss.

[***]

Wing purred, sitting cross-legged at the end of Drift’s bed, his gaze enflaming and arousing, but still, Drift knew, counting, measuring. His optics flicked down, to the chrono Wing was holding in one slack hand. His own hand stroked the slick shaft of his spike, the tempo rising and insistent. His ventilation sped up also, his optics lidding in concentration.  He felt the by-now familiar rising pressure, the feeling of lust edging into need, and just at the klik where one more movement would have been too much, would have pushed him off the verge, tumbling into overload, he pulled his hand away, forcing himself to gulp a deep vent of cool air, feeling the hard knot of lust begin to dissipate, spreading like honeyed warmth over his entire sensornet.

“Oh, Drift,” Wing said, his voice pleased, gratified, and, by now, Drift could tell, aroused. Sometimes he wondered how the Pit Wing restrained himself—day after day, watching Drift stroking at his spike, timing him, cajoling him. 

Wing rolled forward onto his knees.   “I think you’re ready for the next stage.” 

“You,” Drift said, still floating on the fuzzy haze of the diffused arousal, reaching his lubricant sticky hand to Wing’s shoulder. 

Wing laughed, pulling away. “Not yet.”

Drift gave a crimped whine. “Tease.” 

“Anything but,” Wing said, solemnly, sitting back, and donning what Drift had already learned to recognize as his teacher’s voice. “This time, we concentrate here.”

Drift gasped, as Wing’s fingers found some spot, a tiny node on the head’s underside.  Wing rubbed it his thumb tracing a quick little circle over the spot.  Heat seemed to pour down his spike, pressure building, the plates expanding, thick and rigid.  “This,” Wing said. 

Drift shook his head, frantically, trying to pull away.  This? He couldn’t last long at this.

Wing relented, pulling his hand back. “Good, yes?”

“I-intense,” Drift said, quivering. 

Wing nodded. “And now, open this.” His fingers dropped down, and Drift felt the wet heat of his own lubricant on his valve cover.  His mouth worked for a klik, before dropping his head back, unresisting, his body aching from just that one brief touch to his spike’s node.  He’d do anything to have Wing touch him again.  He reached up, clamping Wing’s wrist with his hand.  “Wing.”  His optics blazed, intense, wanting.

“Drift.  Trust me.” 

Drift released Wing’s wrist.  “Fine.” 

The smile heated him, like desire and light mixed together, leaving him in a sort of aroused, floaty languor as Wing reached into a storage compartment on his thigh, holding out a small, palm-length pillar of crystal.

“No!” he said, slithering back on his spaulders.  “No. You’re not putting that in me.” 

“Drift.” The supraorbital ridges under Wing’s helm furrowed. “It doesn’t hurt. I promise.”

His face set in a scowl, the pleasant warmth evaporating. “We don’t. My kind.”

“Drift.”  The gold optics found his. “Trust me?” His hand floated near Drift’s spike, like a promise. 

Drift vented air through his dentae, frustrated, torn.  “Once. Just once.”

Wing nodded. “Once. If you don’t like it, we’ll stop.”

Drift grunted, looking away, trying not to see as Wing’s hand moved between his thighs, sliding the crystal shaft to the mouth of his valve. The repulsor magnet was inert against the quartz, presenting only a soft resistant plushness against Wing's hand. His hips bucked at the sudden intrusion , and he had to force himself still, rigid, his entire body a testament to the trust he extended the jet that he’d never dare speak.

The crystal was cool, unlike a spike, sliding up the tight pleats easily. It was smaller than a spike—that was probably the only reason why Drift didn’t break, swinging at Wing.

Wing looked up, tipping his hand up, palming over the valve, the crystal inside.  “That’s it.” 

“That’s it.” It…wasn’t bad. It was a strange, foreign weight, that shifted when he moved, but it didn’t hurt, it didn’t do anything. Just…be there. 

A nod. “Now,” Wing said. “Squeeze it.”  To Drift’s blank look, he added, “Squeeze. Like you’re trying to keep something from getting in.”

That, he understood, all too well and his valve’s calipers clenched, closing over the hardness. 

“Good,” Wing said, and his hand moved back to Drift’s spike, to that sweet little spot under the head.  “Squeeze when it gets too much.”

It was some kind of exquisite torture, Wing working his thumb over the node, leaving Drift gasping and thrashing, squeezing wildly at the strange crystal, feeling some of the charge dissipate through the crystal’s matrix, through the pressure, spreading the arousal through both his systems.  Wing’s hands were little tantalizing points, the one on his spike, the other cupping over his valve, and the whole world seemed to resolve to his interface equipment, to the tiny star of contact at the head’s underside. 

“Good,” Wing murmured, his voice taking on the husky tone as he succumbed to the moment, himself, the sweet allure of controlling another’s desire, mastering his response, feeding delicately on the nectar of another’s pleasure.  “Good.” 

Drift’s body jolted, in slow motion, like being shaken by some great creature, both of his systems lighting up incandescent and blinding, wracked with desire.  He waited for the hard rush of transfluid, or even the scalding dribble he’d grown used to over the last few days, but none came: instead of the abrupt, jolting release, he felt a slow sort of rolling release, huge and powerful, leaving him gasping and wrung out when Wing finally released him. 

“What,” he gasped, his voice struggling to shape words, his vocalizer fuzzy and soft, as though the usual hard edges of his voice had been worn off, eroded, “was that.”

“That,” Wing said, slithering up his frame, chassis sliding over chassis, thigh against thigh, until his mouth met Drift’s like a final, tender consummation, “is what it means to be free.”


End file.
